


Hear My Call

by badreputation



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Humor, I'm writing too much lately, M/M, PTSD, Painting, Romance, TW: drug use, What is my life?, guitar playing, no seriously, tw: overdose
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-14
Updated: 2014-04-27
Packaged: 2018-01-15 15:04:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1309207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badreputation/pseuds/badreputation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Musketeers AU where Aramis used to be a drug addict, Porthos and Athos basically save him and six years later they are all a part of the Homicide Investigation team, having forgotten the aforementioned event.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prequel

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE READ!  
> TRIGGER WARNING: DRUG USE, OVERDOSE!
> 
> In this chapter they are going to call Aramis by his first name "René" just so you don't wonder. It will be explained in a chapter or two.
> 
> So, I watched Heroes season 1 yesterday and the character Santiago Cabrera played was a drug addict who was an artist that painted the future and this weird idea formed in my head - what if Aramis was drug addict and an artist as well, just without the supernatural powers? 
> 
> Any mistakes are my own.
> 
> Music for this bad guy:  
> Ruu Campbell - The Call (I've been obsessing over this song for a month now and I can't stop)  
> Son Lux - Flickers  
> Carla Bruni - Tu es ma came

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ!  
> TRIGGER WARNING: DRUG USE, OVERDOSE!
> 
> In this chapter they are going to call Aramis by his first name "René" just so you don't wonder. It will be explained in a chapter or two.
> 
> So, I watched Heroes season 1 yesterday and the character Santiago Cabrera played was a drug addict who was an artist that painted the future and this weird idea formed in my head - what if Aramis was drug addict and an artist as well, just without the supernatural powers?
> 
> Any mistakes are my own.
> 
> Music for this bad guy:  
> Ruu Campbell - The Call (I've been obsessing over this song for a month now and I can't stop)  
> Son Lux - Flickers  
> Carla Bruni - Tu es ma came

**SIX YEARS AGO**

“Why are you doing this?” he murmured. It felt weird. Talking. He hadn’t done that in three days. Probably more.

Porthos turned to look at him stunned. He opened his mouth to reply, but found that he couldn’t say anything.

“Why am I even here?” the man infront of him growled or at least tried to with the little strenght he had. “Why did you take it away? Why do you care?” Porthos stood up with the intention to go to the other man. He moved one step forward so he could calm him before something bad happened.

“ANSWER ME!” he flinched and froze in place. He was a Police officer for fuck’s sake. He didn’t flinch because somebody yelled at him. Not when Treville did so almost every morning.

He took a step, then another, but stopped when he saw how René moved so he was as far away from him. Like he thought that the leather armchair was going to swallow him whole. Porthos lifted his hands in the air and slowly started to move closer again.

“God damn it, stop acting like I’m a rabid animal!” René looked away from him and clutched his abdomen with his arms. He was starting to breathe heavily, shaking his head, the messy curls hiding half of his slim face.

“What more do you want? You took it away from me and you won’t even let me go, like I’m a bloody prisoner. Shouldn’t you be catching a murderer or something?” the firce flame in those hollow eyes returned again. Porthos knew that he shouldn’t feel so glad about that, but anger and rage were better that that nothingness that haunted the younger man.

“I want you to be happy.” Porthos said. René snorted.

“You took it away. My _happiness_.” René looked out of the window and clutched the leather under his palm, gripping the arm of the easy-chair.

“That’s not—It was killing you!”

“Then you should have let it kill me!” Porthos stopped again. The words hit him harder than they should have.

René hunched over with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.

**Earlier that week**

“Are you sure this is the place?”

“He said that there was a junkie that allegedly knows a lot about our guy.”

“And you trust a junkie’s word that another junkie knows a lot about our guy?”

“Do you have something better?”

Porthos sighted.

They entered the building and started climbing the stairs all the way up to the fifth floor. Athos knocked on the door to the left.

“Monsieur d’Herblay?” no answer came. “This is the Police. We want to ask you a few questions.” Still nothing. They repeated the same sentences one more time with no answer. Athos looked at Porthos who in return shrugged and kicked the door to the apartment open.

Soft music was playing. Somebody was singing quietly along with it. So quiet that they almost missed it.

They took out their guns and followed the voice which lead them to the living room. There was a man lying on the floor. If there was any snow it would have looked like he was making a snow angel. His wavy hair was sticking to his sweaty neck. There was a needle not far from him.

_*“Tu es ma came. Tu es mon genre de délice, de programme. Je t'aspire, je t'expire et je me pâme. Je t'attends comme on attend la manne…”_

“Shit.” Porthos put away his gun and knelt next to the body. The man was pale, his pupils were so dilated that he couldn’t tell where his iris started. “Shit.” when Porthos touched his neck to check the pulse he found that it was really slow. His skin was cold.

 _“Shit.”_ he was just about to tell Athos to call the ambulance when he heard his friend doing so.

“…has overdosed. Yes. Yes. Thank you.” Athos put his phone in his pocket. “They are on their way.”

“His pulse is too slow.” Porthos didn’t dare move his hand from the man’s neck in case the pulse faltered even more. He had a light stubble like he hadn't shaved since yesterday. Porthos moved the long strands of hair away from his neck and the few ones that were on his left temple. He looked so young.

“René Aramis d’Herblay.” Athos was looking at the wallet that was left on the coffee table, it’s entire surface filled with books, pencils and paint.

The music stopped. But the male on the ground continued on singing quietly.

 _**“Entre los ladrillos oculta todos sus secretos, pero las paredes, me dicen todo, a pesar de que no tienen más espacio para mantenerlo, a pesar de que no tienen más espacio para mantenerlo…”_ Porthos saw how the fingers on the man’s left hand twitched. Both of his hands were covered in paint, his clothes no exception.

“He’s barely breathing and still continues on singing.” in just that moment the singing stopped and the male started taking large gulps of air.

“The ambulance is taking too long.” Porthos growled. Athos looked at the rest of the apartment just to do something, knowing that he couldn't do anything to help. The only thing he found were a few more doses of heroin, more paint and even more books. The bedroom was last.

He most certanly did not expcet what he saw.

The whole room was a complete mess – the bed and small table that was probably used as a nightstand were pushed over to the right wall. In front of him, on the previously white wall, was a painting of what looked like a man, ruined by the red paint that was thrown over it. It was dripping down the wall, as if it represented blood.

In the background sounded “Naval” by Yann Tiersen.

“Porthos.” a few seconds later Porthos ran to him. He was just about to ask what’s wrong when he followed Athos’s gaze. He took a deep breath.

“Please tell me that I’m not the only one who’se getting the shivers here.”

“You’re not.” they shared a worried look.

 

**End of flashback**

 

“Why am I even alive?” The question pulled Porthos out of his mind and back to reality. René was pulling at his hair viciously.

“Hey. Stop. _Stop_.” in a moment Porthos was kneeling in front of René, holding his hands away from his hair.

“Don’t touch me!” the younger man hit him in the stomach with his knee, but before he could do the same thing with his head Porthos backed away and caught his lower leg. He frowned and tipped his head down a bit giving his pissed-the-fuck-off stare.

“There is a table behind me and if I accidentally hit my head on it the possibility of me remaining alive is closer to zero. Which means that you’ll be a murderer. You don’t want that, do you?” he watched René jaw clench. He looked awful.

His hair that was a little below his shoulders was filled with terrible tangles, the pale face made the shadows under his eyes stand out more than before. The hollow underneath his cheekbones was getting more prominent. And with the little stubble he had before gone he looked a little over nineteen. Porthos himself appeared younger without the beard. Lately he had developed the habit of shaving every morning. Which was a pain. Athos did so too just so he wasn’t alone.

“Let me help you.”

“You only need me for that ivestigation.”

“That’s not true.”

“Fine. You want to help me? Give me back the drugs.”

“I flushed them down the toilet.”

“You _what_?”

“I… uh… flushed them down the toilet?”

The younger shook his head with a face that clearly said that he was 500 % done. He brought a hand to his right temple.

"Flushed them down the toilet..." he said with such a low voice that Porthos almost missed it. René laughed, but at the same time it wasn't a laugh, because it was too empty and scary to be one. "The toilet..." his legs started twitching, whole body shaking and sweating.

The withdrawal had finally started.

It should have beginned a few days ago, but René hit his head hard down the stairs when he tried to run away from them so the nurses gave him morphine to soothe the pain. He has been clean for almost 24 hours now. At frst Porthos thought that maybe René was one of those people who suffered with an emotionless mask in place on heir own. He had hoped that maybe when the morphine's effect was over he would talk and tell them something, _anything_ , but with no avail.  


He didn't look at anybody or opened his mouth. 

That's why Athos left the guy to him. He said that he probably would have lashed out and would have made things worse.

"Where is my guitar?"

At first Porthos had no idea what he was talking about, but then he remembered. They had found it in the bedroom. Unlike the bed and the small table it was gently rested on the left wall. There wasn't even a splatter of paint on it. It had been put in a bag along with the few clothes that were either way too torn apart or covered in paint. 

As soon as Porthos gave him the guitar, the man started playing. 

Porthos swallowed and felt himself shiver.

It was so incredible that he found himself leaning against the wall in front René. The other male's spasming had stopped barely a minute before. His thin fingers played with such ease.

He must have fallen asleep, because when he woke up René was nowhere to be found.

There was a note on the table in the kitchen.

_ "Thank you for putting up with me when I was such an ass (or a pain in the ass, whichever you prefer). I didn't deserve your hospitality. Farewell, X (sorry, I have this tendency to not remember the names of the people I meet, that way it is eaisier when they leave you or you leave them)." _

The bag with the clothes and the guitar were gone, but the dishes from the past few days were cleaned, the laundry was folded and all the dust was gone.

On the armchair where the man sat was another note this time with a name of a song. 

_ "Ruu Campbell - The Call" _

His handwriting was beautiful. Well, what could he expect from an artist. With a drug addiction. Who he has to report missing. Right now.

Although he knew that any hope to get the needed information on their guy had just left and they would most likely never have a chance to meet again.

They'll probably have to ask junkie number one for a second time. And Treville was going to rip their throats out. 

 

** PRESENT DAYS **

 

The moment Constance saw him enter through the door she doubted Treville's decision. The man he had hired looked far too young to have been in Afghanistan for almost two years and to be a better shooter than Athos. She thought so until she saw his eyes which were made of steel. The moment he spotted her he completely changed - a bright smile shone on his face.  


"Madame Bonacieux?" he asked. "My name is Aramis." he bowed and kissed her hand while she gaped at him in awe, but quickly regained her composure.

"Yes, I've heard about you." she streightened her clothes. "Let me take you to the idi-- your new partners."

They went up the stairs, Aramis commenting on her hair, saying how shiny and silky it looked.

By the time they got to the right door she was frowning and trying to stop blushing.

"Aha!" sounded from the other side of the door. Constance opened it slowly and peeked in. Porthos had one of his hands full of darts, half of which were on the wall on the picture of Richelieu - he had horns, bushy eyesbrows and vampire teeth made with a black marker. Porthos had just hit between his eyes.

"Gentlemen." she said, but clearly wanted to call them otherwise. She opened the door fully and let Aramis in.

Porthos couldn't put his mind to it, but the guy seemed a tad bit familliar. When he turned towards Athos he too looked like he was thinking the same.

The man introduced himself as Aramis. He had a beard that was almost the same as Porthos's and Athos's, wavy dark brown hair that curled around his ears and nape and a dazzling smile.

When they got introduced Constance took him to Treville.

"Let's hope he lasts a week before he runs away from us screaming in horror." Porthos threw another dart and hit Richelieu's left eye. He pumped his fist in the air. 

"He seems too cheerful for that. But let's not judge when we have just met him."

"You're probably right. I'll judge him in twenty minutes or less when Treville assigns us something."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what do you think? Should I continue or is it a lost cause?
> 
> Ruu Campbell's song "The Call" was the one René (Aramis) played on the guitar and since he saw how much Porthos liked it he gave him the name of the song. And let's pretend that it existed six years ago, okay?
> 
> * It's from Carla Bruni's song "Tu es ma came" : "You're my drug , you're my kind of delight, of programe. I inhale you, I exhale you and I faint away. I wait for you as one awaits the manna..."
> 
> ** Spanish translation of The Paper Melody's song "Keep The Close", I don't know how right it is, because my Spanish isn't great, the same goes for Google's dictionary: "Between the bricks you hide all your secrets, but the walls, they tell me everything, though they have no more space to keep it, though they have no more space to keep it..." 
> 
> Feel free to point out any mistakes, I'll correct them right away!
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My GOD, guys! Thank you SO MUCH for the feedback and wonderful words! And to make you happy I decided to write a new chapter since you made my day, I'll probably start the next chapter today as well. I want to hug the hell out of all you readers!
> 
> WARNING: MENTIONS OF CHILD ABUSE AND MENTAL ILLNESS!
> 
> Any mistakes are my own!
> 
> Music for this bad boy:  
> IMAX - Sorrow  
> Anya Marina - Move You  
> Joe Banfi - Nomads

Aramis completely changed when they had a case or when he shot with his gun. The vibrant smile disappeared, replaced by a frown and a look so serios that looked foreign on his face. When he thought, his eyes moved to the right with his elbows on the surface in before him, hands clasped in front of his mouth which made him look like he was praying.

Porthos cursed himself. He wasn’t supposed to be so interested in their newcomer. Constance's curiosity was enough.

But in a week's worth of time Aramis still hadn’t left the job and Porthos knew way too much about him than he should have known. Like the fact that he hated sugar in his coffee (which was always black), that he always smelled of paint (it was so familiar), charcoal and the musk that was his own, that he got silent when it rained, that he talked to himself in Spanish when he couldn’t comprehend something.

“Porthos.” the gentle hand on his shoulder almost made him jump. Almost. One more fact – he used their names often. And another – he could hypnotize you with his smile.

“Mmm?”

“You haven’t moved in fourty-five minutes and have stared at that piece of paper for the time being. You need rest.” Aramis’s eyes were filled with sympathy.

“He’s right.” Athos said somewhere behind him.

“Look who’s talkin’.” he shot back. The silence that followed was a silent victory, but it also meant that his dear friend was deep in his thought again. He turned around. Athos had his back to them both. He looked at Aramis the same time Aramis turned his eyes towards him. They shared a grin.

“Care to go out for a drink, gentlemen? To celebrate the fact that there is one drug dealer less roaming the streets of Paris?” the happiness that radiated off Aramis was genuine. And contagious.

“He has a point. Come on, Athos.”

“You could preted that we do not exist and we will continue to annoy you until you give up and take our offer. Or we can do this the easy way and head out right away. You choose. I’m fine with either.” Aramis managed to look innocent while saying that.

Athos gave him a look out of the corner of his eye.

“What? I am going to work with you for a while it seems, so we might as well get to know eachother, right?”

That seemed to convince the other man, because he nodded, wrote a few more words on the paper in front of him and got up.

Ah, yes – Aramis had this gift to make people do whatever he wanted. Good thing he was on their side.

 

In the end they were all drunk. They had gotten past Athos’s five stages of drunken misery – first was apathy, second was quiet grief, third was even more silent agony, fourth was desperation and fifth was the depression. Now they were on an entirely new stage for Athos, at least as much as Porthos had seen for the past seven years he had known him – the sixth one – joy. He was laughing on every stupid joke told by anybody and everybody, barely sitting in his chair.

Aramis’s stages of drunkenness faltered between mirth and thinking. One moment he was laughing like a mad man and the next he clutched his glass and stared at his drink with a blank face. It had happened four times now. And it was happening for a fifth. Porthos had no intention of watching him look like his soul was being ripped out of him, so he took them out of the bar since he was the most sober of them all.

And yet a new stage occurred – contemplation. Athos walked where he was told to, but was somewhere else entirely. Porthos didn’t know if it was in the good or in the bad sense. For now.

They took a taxi to Athos’s apartment. He insisted and gave Porthos a look that said that he wasn’t going anywhere else.

At least there was a lot of space and the neighbours were quiet folk. Porthos put Athos in his bed, taking off his shoes. He didn’t have enough time to take off his shirt and trousers, because Athos turned to his side, facing the window, back to his friend for the second time that evening.

Aramis had turned on a small lamp on the wall to the left in the living room, the light made the shadows dance around his face, eyes unreadable.

“There are some painkillers in the bathroom if you want any. Athos always keeps some just in case.” Porthos said and observed how Aramis freezed altogether, he stopped breathing for more than he should have. But it just as easily could have been a long intake of breath.

Aramis nodded and seemed paler. It was probably the light.

“You wanna take the couch?”

Aramis raised an eyebrow and finally _looked_ at him, not _through_ him.

“And what? You’ll take the floor?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Well, no. I’m fine here. Go to sleep.”

“Well--”

“Porthos.” The way he said his name made him stop. He searched for the brown orbs, but found them averted from him.

“Suit yourself.” he said and laid on the couch with his arms folded over his chest. The light was so dull that it didn’t even bother him. Actually, it was pleasant.

“Does the light bother you?” Porthos’s head snapped towards the owner of the voice. The surprise must have been written on his face, because Aramis’s lips stretched in a tired smile.

“Did you just read my mind?”

“I think that you are a bit too drunk, my friend. Now, go to sleep.”

“No, seriously.”

“I am.”

“No, _seriously_.”

“Go to sleep, Porthos.”

Porthos narrowed his eyes. Then shifted his head so he could look at Aramis at a batter angle and opened his mouth, but the movement of his head made him dizzy. He really was drunk. Very at that. But so was Aramis. Or maybe he wasn’t giving the lad enough credit.

“This isn’t over.” he said and shifted his head the way it was previously, his hands moving to cross over his chest again. His mind, though, had other opinion. “Are you sure you--”

“Porthos."

Alright, maybe he enjoyed Aramis saying his name more than he should have.

He grunted and closed his eyes.

 

He woke up to the smell of coffee.

There was a blanket covering him and pillow under his head. He knew that it was Aramis who had done that, but he had no idea how - Porthos was a light sleeper, even the smallest of sounds awoke him. Maybe it had to do something with the fact that he had been drunk the previous night.

When he stood up from the couch he saw that the curtains were drawn together. For which he was gratefull, because the light would have killed him and would have probably started an even bigger headache than the one that he was going through at the time being.

Athos's door was closed which meant that he was still asleep or just didn't want to face the world yet.

Porthos headed towards the bathroom and cursed when he put the light on.

"Sweet mother of--!" he growled queitly.

He hadn't experienced this kind of pain in while. A long while. Since he got slammed in the head with a metal shovel two days before Christmas. Which was almost four years ago.

Porthos washed his face and let the cold water drip down his face. That helped a bit to wake him up. Since he didn't have e toothbrush here he put some toothpaste on his index finger and ran it over his teeth a few times, then rinsed his mouth and wet his face again.

The light in the kitchen was even more blinding.

"Morning." Aramis poured him a glass of water.

"Ughh. Why is there so much light?" Porthos covered his eyes with one hand, but at the same time he left a little space between his middle and ring finger so he had a little vision while with the other he touched around until he found the table. He pulled one of the chairs out with his leg and sat down slowly.

The other male put the large glass in front of him.

"Thanks." he started going around the table with his fingers. Another hand took his own and guided him until he reached the cold glass. "Thanks. Again."

Aramis laughed.

"You had some of those painkillers didn't you?" the laughter died in less than a second. Porthos, though, didn't notice since the pain was too overwhelming. "I think I'm going to have some too."

It became quiet.

Porthos removed the hand from his face, hissing at the direct light coming from the window in front of him. He heard pills clacking just before the bottle was thrown at him. He took out on and swallowed it along with the water.

When he was finally able to see he noticed one thing right away.

"You look like hell." that was the only way he could describe Aramis. Dark circles were starting to form under his eyes due the case they had finished yesterday, heck, they were all like that, but there was something about his face that told Porthos that things were bad. He looked like he had been in the armchair for the bigger part of the night and had looked at the white plastic bottle that contained the pills. The theory seemed even more authentic due the fact that Aramis wasn't taking his eyes off them.

"Bad experience?"

"You could say that." the trance was broken and Aramis turned around to pour himself a generous amount of black coffee.

"How can you drink that without any sugar?" at least Porthos knew when to drop things.

"It's even more disgusting with sugar in it." Aramis shrugged and sat in front of him, taking with himself the jug with water.

Porthos nodded.

The silence hung between them. Until Athos's groan was heard from the living room.

"Blasted table!" the quiet murmur got close to the kitchen door. Then it swung open to reveal an even terrible looking Athos.

"I guess I am not the only Sleeping Beauty today."

Porthos snorted.

Athos groaned.

"Coffee." he rasped put and sat next to Porthos and stayed upright for a second before he rested his arms on the table and his head over them.

"Oi. If you fall asleep you won't wake up again."

"That's the point." Porthos kicked his chair while Aramis slammed a cup with coffee in front of Athos.

He groaned again and covered his ears with his hands.

"Treville wanted us at nine thirty, right?"

"Yeah."

"It's nine."

Porthos snapped his head to the left to the clock and saw that Aramis wasn't joking.

"Well, shit." Athos's voice sounded.

 

They made it on time. Right on time. Constnce rolled her eyes at them.

"He told you to come that early, because if he hadn't you idiots would have swung by at noon." she laughed at their faces. "Did you really not think it through? Jeez, you're supposed to be Homicide Investigators." she sighted. "We're doomed."

"Not entirely." Aramis smiled.

"How can you be so cheerful?" Athos seemed really offended by the good mood. "You too." he looked at Porthos.

"We took painkillers." Porthos and carefully monitored Aramis's reaction.

His smile didn't falter, but the light in his eyes disappered, returning a second later. He was good at covering up. But it wasn't Porthos's buisness. He himself wouldn't like it somebody poked about his past.

 

Seven months later they were chasing after a serial killer that didn't have a specific type or prefered only one kind of weapon, but placed the bodies in the same way - lying on their right side on the ground with their hands clasped together like a prayer.

Porthos shook his head for the fouth time in ten minutes.

They were in Treville's office, the man in particular pacing around.

"So, you are telling me that our murderer is a psychopathic schizophrenic eighteen year old boy who had abusive parents that died in a car crash two months ago?"

"Yes. That was the trigger we were searching for."

"And we need an order. We believe that all the evidence we need is in his apartment, probably a whole room filled with "throphies". " Aramis had his serious face on. That seemed enough to convince the Captain.

"Then you have it."

 

And that's how they ended up chasing a crazy teenager that ran faster than a rabbit, only he had a butcher's knife. It would have been funny if he wasn't slipping away. Since Aramis the youngest he was able to catch up with him just in time. They almost had him cornered.

"Pierre!" the boy freezed and turned around.

Aramis was approaching him  with a gun in both his hands.

"Pierre, drop the knife."

"They were so awful."

"I don't want to hurt you, Pierre."

"You know, they locked me in a suitcase when I was a little boy. When I grew up the suitcase was too small, so they used a freezer." the boy laughed. His eyes were so crazed that they reminded Aramis of his own years ago. "They hated me. And I didn't even know why." Pierre waved the knife arond while he talked.

"Pierre."

"She used to dunk my head in the bathtub, my _mother_."

"I want you to calm down."

"They too wanted a lot of me. And I failed. I failed. I failed! So they punished me!" he yelled, tears in his eyes. "She tried to drown me in the pond when I was three. Why?"

"Piere, listen to me, you need to ca--"

" _Why did you do this to me?!_ " Pierre clutched his head with his hands, knife still in the right one. "I... I promise I'll do better! Please, don't, don't put me there! I swear! I'll be better!" he murmured, breathing heavily.

Aramis got closer to him, gun still pointed at the boy.

"Pierre. Pierre, calm down, you n-"

"No, no, don't, I'll be good, I promise! I promise!"

"Pierre."

"NO!"

There was a sharp pain at his side, bue Aramis knew better than to look at the wound. It was probably worse than it felt and if he dared spare a glance he would probably go in to shock. He had been an army doctor at one point of his stay in Afghanistan, but each time he had a big and dangerous wound it was like it was for the first time. One trick he learned was to never look. That was the golden rule. It was the same as heights - as long as you concentrate to pass through everything was going to be fine. He used his right hand to clutch the wound, while the other he used to steady the gun. There was a lot of blood under his fingers.

Fuck.

"Pierre. Li-"

"No, no, no, leave me alone, don't put me in there, don't!" he was having an episode. And was getting closer again. Aramis tried to back away, but the boy swung the knife again. He had to shoot. And he did.

"Aramis!" he heard Porthos in the distance. He kicked the knife away and tucked away his gun, clenching his teeth and kneeling down next to Pierre.

"No, no..." tears were rolling out of the younger's eyes.

"Shh..." Aramis caugh his hand with the one that wasn't busy with stopping the bleeding. Pierre coughed a few times and looked at Aramis, holding his eyes until his own died away. The body of the boy went limp.

Aramis closed his eyes with his free hand and started praying in Spanish.

" _Aramis!_ "

" _Padre nuestro que estás en los cielos, santificado sea Tu nombre. Venga Tu reino..._ "

"Aramis!" footsteps were to be heard.

_"Hágase Tu voluntad, en la tierra como en el cielo. Danos hoy el pan de este día y perdona nuestras deudas como nosotros perdonamos nuestros deudores.."_

"Athos, he's wounded badly!" Porthos crouched next to him.

_"...y no nos dejes caer en al tentación sino que líbranos del malo. Amen."_

As soon as he finished with the prayer he was turned towards Porthos.

 

"How bad is it?" Aramis asked.

Porthos's wide eyes answered him when they moved rapidly between the wound and his face.

"That bad, huh."

Porthos helped him lay down. He took off his jacket and applied pressure to the wound. Aramis breathed through his nose.

"C'mon, look at me." Porthos slapped his cheek lightly and kept it there afterwards. "That's it."

"Please, tell me that the ambulance is on it's way, because I'm starting to get cold. And sleepy."

"Damn it! Hey, hey, don't close your eyes! Look at me, look at me! Athos!"

But Porthos had forgotten. Athos stayed back, because a pregnant woman got hit and had fallen on the ground in the chase.

"Shit. Damn it."

Aramis tried to laugh, but his face was ghostly pale and the effect was ruined.

"Don't you dare die on me! Don't you _dare_!" Aramis nodded franticly.

They heard the sirens and sighted.

"See? Everything's gonna be fine. Just hold on." in a matter of seconds help was there and they got Aramis on a stretcher.

"He's blood type AB plus!" Porthos said while he helped and he himself got in the back of the ambulance. "Oi, stay with me!" he slapped Aramis's cheek again.

"Is he allergic to anything?"

"Not that I know of, no." the lady nodded.

Suddenly Aramis's hand snatched his arm, his eyes wide in fear.

"No drugs! NO drugs!" he whimpered.

"But, sir--"

"NO DRUGS!"

"I'm sorry, sir, bet we have to--"

"No, no drugs..." they put an oxygen mask to keep him quiet.

The ambulance stoped a few seconds later. The last thing he saw was Porthos's face scrunched up in fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed it! Feel free to tell me what you think about it, I hope I didn't disappoint! :)  
> (Sorry, but I can't seem to make the note from the first chapter go away, so just ignore it, okay :D)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the feedback, guys! You are all so awesome!
> 
> Any mistakes are my own.
> 
> Music:  
> The Neighbourhood - Afraid  
> Ratatat - Six  
> Ratatat - Drugs  
> Athlete - Rubik's Cube  
> Passion Pit - Little Secrets (Instrumental)

“Sir. Sir?”

Porthos looked at the face of the nurse.

“I need you to let go, sir.”

He did so and watched them take Aramis to the operating room. His hands were covered in blood and for the first time since he was a child his fingers were shaking.

“Porthos!” he couldn’t turn his head. Athos stood in front of him, panting and red in the face. “How is he?” he shook his head and something in Athos’s expression changed. 

The body of the kid that was in one of those large black bags flew past them, a man pushing it towards a room in the end of the corridor.

“He is going to be alright.”

“You didn’t see the wound.”

A firm hand squeezed his shoulder.

“Aramis is strong. He’ll make it through.”

Porthos didn’t answer, but continued on looking at his bloody hands, still feeling the warm flesh and scarlet liquid.

“Porthos. We have been through this before.”

“I know.” Porthos snarled, angry with himself and the lack of control. _“I know.”_

Athos understood him very well. He too was worried about their friend. At first they started “hanging out” just because they were stuck, but then it became pleasent fast and they started going to the bar almost every night when they didn’t have a case to think of.

Aramis was intelligent and knew a lot, he didn’t cease to amaze them. He was good at reading people and always spotted a lie, whether it was the way their mouth moved or there was a wrinkle here or there, he was always right. He had become their brother in such a short amount of time. Sometimes Athos caught himself thinking what would happen if he stayed for even longer. Would they be literary like a family in a few years?

Would they survive after a few years? Would he survive the operation?

Athos had lost himself in his thoughts, not even noticing when Porthos had left to wash his hands and take some coffee.

“Here.” he nodded in gratitude and blew the steam away. He looked at Porthos. “You don’t drink coffee.”

“Habit. Before I realized it I had taken two.” Porthos laughed with absolutely no humor in his voice.

 

An hour later the surgeon came out.

“We’ve stabilazed him.” he didn’t seem all too happy about that.

“But?” Athos knew there was more to it.

“We almost lost him thrice.” the doctor sighted.

Porthos paled and swallowed.

“Three times?”

“There were a few complication. He woke up and tore most of the stitches, making himself bleed even more. By the time we took control he had done more damage to himself and was worse than when we admitted him.”

“Did he harm himself?” Athos’s eyebrows furrowed. Aramis was usually controlled and didn’t lose it easily. He spared a glance at Porthos and saw him looking at the wall with an expression that wasn’t angry, worried and puzzled, but all the three in one.

“Not intentionally, no. He just made the wound a few centimeters longer. I don’t even know what happened. One moment he was fine and in the next he started shouting.” the surgeon sighted. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

“Childhood? Did they trigger something by accident?” Porthos didn’t look at him, but they have been working for so long that he knew Athos was listening.

“I have been thinking the same.” Athos flopped down next to him.

 

They got sent away, because they weren’t family and were “disturbing the peace”.

“Just sleep. You won’t help him by staying up all night and trying to make it your fault.”

“I’ll do that if you don’t drink.”

Athos’s jaw clenched and unclenched a few times.

“Fine. But you are staying at my place. That way we’ll blame ourselves together.”

“Deal.”

 

They sat on the couch, clean and fresh physically and on the verge of exploding psychically.

“They could at least call us to tell his condition, the bastards.” Porthos’s leg was bouncing up and down. If the Athos that was five years younger saw it he fould have tried to stop it, because he hated when things moved in his peripheral vision, especially after a particularly hard day. But he wasn’t the same. And right now he was too sober to care. And was probably experiencing a bit of withdrawl. A tiny bit.

“I have wine and whiskey.”

His friend thought over the sentense for a while and stopped fidgeting.

“The whiskey is mine.” his voice sounded growly, but it always did that when he was pissed, depressed or gloomy.

In the end they both drank.

 

In the morning they went to see Aramis with the little hope that they’ll actually let them. Fortunately – they did.

Aramis was high. They had drugged him so much that he couldn’t stand.

“But it’s just a few stitches.” Porthos wondered.

“He tried to convince us that he was perfectly fine so we could let him go. And slipped on the floor. Then he fell backwards and hit his wounded side. On the freaking _metal table_. So now not only does he have stitches, but he has an enormous black bruse that’s covering half of his bloody back. That’s why.” the nurse that was taking care of his said and left the room as fast as she could.

When Aramis saw them he started laughing like a five year old that has seen it’s birthday cake.

“P’thos? `thos?” he said.

“Yeah, it’s us.” they sat on each side of his bed.

“Did… they… drug me?” he had a hard time forming a sentece and rubbed at his eyes. He really resembled a kid. “Twenty-seven stitches!”

“Twenty-seven stitches?” Aramis nodded. When Porthos looked him in the eyes he saw how large his pupils were. And that reminded of something. But he couldn’t remember. It probably wasn’t important if he couldn’t figure it out.

Aramis fell asleep shortly after and didn’t wake up while they were there. But he was going to be discharged in two days.

“Told you he will be alright.” even Athos himself didn’t seem convinced.

They walked in silence towards Athos’s apartment, because the elder didn’t trust Porthos to be by himself.

“I’m not a baby, you know. I can take care of myself.”

“I know that. But I also know that you tend to forget that thinking is important when you are in a foul mood.” Athos clapped his shoulder.

 

When Aramis woke up he wasn’t high anymore. One part of him was glad, while the other wanted more of the foggy bliss. The nurse was checking on him.

“No more drugs.” he said and swallowed. “I won’t move, but no more drugs.”

“It’s going to hurt like hell.”

“I know.”

“We’ll have to tend to your stitches soon too. That will hurt even more due the new bruise.”

“I know.”

“Alright. I’ll talk to the doctor.” she wrote something in the chart and turned to leave.

“Thank you.” she nodded. He wasn’t even able to see the label with her name.

He was going to hate himself for this later, but that way was safer. Because this time he didn’t know if he’ll be able to stop once he started.

Oh, how he wanted to paint. He hadn’t been able to do so in at least two weeks, not even a quick sketch. It was frustrating. Before, drawing was part of his routine – he would shoot himself up and would paint for hours and hours. After he went dry the painting helped him through it, because it took up most of his time.

He had tried to stop doing drugs before. Because of them Marsac didn’t want to be a part of their destructive realtionship. He was his childhood friend with whom he had had shared most of his good moments in life. They ended up together when they were old enough to figure out what love meant. But back then they were reckless and the thing between them was more on-off relationship than anything. After a particularly bad fight Aramis thought that it really was over. Heartbroken, young and stupid he wanted to forget. He didn’t even remember who had given him the heroin.

He was twenty. So then was the first time actually. And he had overdosed. It had been pure bliss. He never wanted it to stop.

That was when two Police officers had saved his life. Not that he remembered much, it was mostly a blur. The few things that he could recall were the painting in his bedroom of Marsac and the red paint that he had thrown over it afterwards, as well as the soft voice that talked to him and the snarky sentences he shot back. It was six years ago. When he escaped from officers he used heroin a few more times.

After that he continued painting again and he told himself that it was over. No more drugs. In the end he and Marsac parted, because it truly was for the best. Painting had become his life. But at one point it wasn’t enough. So he decided that he needed to do something else. And since he liked to do things extremely he went to Afghanistan. That finally did the trick. The training and the battles were helping him concentrate on things that weren’t self-destructive thoughts. He found friends that helped when boredome came.

It seemed that life had a different plan for him and Marsac. He was surprised to see the other man there. And Marsac was happy for him - he had been clean for more than a year which was a start.

Then things backfired. Of course, because life just couldn’t resist to bite you in the ass. One night they were ambushed. Most of their friends died in their sleep and the others fought – they all did. Marsac died in his hands while Aramis was trying to sew him – he had been shot and stabbed. The bulled had passed through, but the stab was bad and his dear friend was losing a lot of blood.

He was the only survivor. After that event he went home to find that his older sister had passed away while he was gone. That had been the final straw. He was all alone now. No family, no friends, nothing.

Heroin became a part of his life again.

Until he met Anne.

She was a good, beautiful and intelligent woman. She bought him paint, canvas and oils so he could overcome his addiction for good this time. He teached her how to paint, moving her hand with his against the white canvas until beautiful forms came from under their fingers. But they didn’t become lovers. Oh, they tried to love each other and they did. It was just more of a family love, like a brother and sister. She saved him. For the first time he went to rehab and to group sessions. Both helped. As well as Anne.

At some point they had to continue with their lifes. They still kept in touch and had actually seen each other a month ago. Anne looked like she knew a secret that he didn’t.

He couldn’t let himself fall down the pit again. What if this time was the actual end? There couldn’t always be somebody out there who would save him in the last moment. He had to fight.

But the worst part was that there was a part of him that wanted to live a life of drugs again or to not live at all. It was that black door that he had locked down and chained, that he didn’t want to open again. And he wasn’t going to.

He hoped.

 

They prescribed him Vicodin.

It was like life was telling him "To Hell with your positivity crap.” .

He tucked the bottle in his bag and headed out of the hospital where Porthos and Athos were waiting for him.

“Ha-ha!” he had missed that loud laugh. Porthos was just about to hug him, but he remembered why his friend had actually been in the hospital and stopped himself. Athos smiled at him, one of those rare actually-happy smiles.

Aramis smiled too, but his were not so genuine. After so many years he had gotten used to it. When they asked he blamed it on the fact that was tired from the whole near Death experince. Athos gave him a ride home.

 

When he closed the door behind him he got the oils ready and found an empty canvas. He changed to more comfortable clothes, careful with the awful bruising and the stitches.

He painted the whole night. Old cases, frozen ones that they had tried to solve and failed to, Athos while he was drunk in stage six of his “Drunken Misery” like Portos called it. He painted Porthos twice, but thought nothing of it. He was aware of the feelings that he was starting to form for his friend. He didn’t know if a relationship was good for anybody right now. Besides, he satisfied his needs with women who like him looked for love for one night. That was the best choice he had made in his life. But still he couldn’t stop comparing him and them.

Well, that was his own problem. He didn’t want to drag another person in his personal Hell on Earth.

 

“He’ll come around.”

“All that bright mood seemed so _forced_.”

“You know that if we pressure him things will just get worse.”

“Yeah. And I also know that we don’t know him as well as we want to think we do.”

“Porthos.” Athos tilted his head to the side a bit in his trademark bitter stare. “We have known each other for less than a year. And a man has to have a bit of pravicy as well.”

Porthos knew that he was right. Athos was always right.

 

In the morning they all looked like they were hit by a train, then had jumped from a cliff and had dried themselves in a desert.

“I almost died, what’s your excuse?” Aramis said when Poerhos entered their office. The older man turned his eyes towards him and grunted.

“I don’t speak Athos’s language yet.”

Another grunt.

“Did you forget how to talk?”

And yet another grunt.

Aramis laughed, then made a grimace.

“Shit.” he clutched his side in pain.

“Couldn’t have said it better.” Porthos sprawled on his desk and hit his head in the table repeatedly. "You okay?"

“Did you stay up all night drinking in a bar, then remembered that you have work and just changed your clothes so you don’t reek that much?” Aramis avoided the question.

“How’d you know?”

“God, Porthos. You should have stayed home. We don’t even have a case. Haven’t had one in a week.”

“Treville is going to strangle me with his tie.” Porthos groaned when Athos kicked the door open and glared at him. He looked even worse than them both together.

“How many Dementors were there?” Aramis was seriosly starting to worry about Athos. That man’s felicity had been drained from him to the last drop.

“New neighbours. Stayed up until five. And woke up in six.”

“One hour was enough sleep for them? What planet are they from?” Porthos stretched his back and Aramis snorted in his cup to Porthos's comment.

“I don’t care if it was enough. That will teach them to keep quiet.” Athos’s face turned smug for a short moment.

Aramis clapped his shoulder.

“How is you wound? Are you even supposed to be at work?” Porthos was looking at his side like he could see the stitches under his white shirt. Aramis waved his hand dismissively.

“This is practically nothing. I’ve had worse.” Porthos’s eyebrows went to his hairline.

“My back, a bomb and a very sharp rock. Not a good combination.” This time Athos’s eyebrows shot up.

“Did they give you something for the pain?”

“Vicodin.”

“Are you actually taking it?”

“Nope.”

“Aramis.”

“Bad history.” Aramis turned away from them. Porthos wanted to push him further, but Athos shook his head. This time Porthos didn’t listen.

“Why are you so afraid from drugs?” he stood up. Athos tried to kick him in the shin. “Aramis?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Aramis started arranging folders and stray pages.

“You have to at some point.” Porthos was getting closer.

“Porthos.” Athos grabbed his arm and pulled him, but he snatched it back.

Aramis turned around and Porthos was right in front of him, their chests almost touching.

“Move, Porthos.”

“No. Not until you tell us.”

“I _don’t_ want to talk about it.” Aramis said slowly, his eyes getting detached. Porthos crossed his hands in front of his chest, pushing Aramis back a bit in the process.

“Porthos. Move. _Now._ ” he growled the last words, his teeth bared.

 _“Like a rabid animal.”_ Porthos thought.

Something snapped. His eyes widened. He stopped breathing.

Impossible.

He saw Aramis’s wallet on the desk behind said man. He snatched it and tried to take out the ID card.

“What are you doing?” Aramis took it back.

“Your name. Your _full_ name. What is it?” Porthos shook him by the shoulders, grateful for the advantage in height.

“Treville must have given you some folder with information about me. Let me _go_.” he twisted away and hissed when his bruise came in contact with the desk behind him.

“No, he did not. We were given no information about you. We only knew that we were going to have a new partner.” this time it was Athos who spoke.

“So he told you _nothing_ else about me?”

“No.”

Aramis shot past the both of them and charged towards Treville’s office. The other man didn’t even lift his eyes from the papers he was reading.

“Close the door.”

Aramis slammed it shut.

“You know.”

“About what?” Treville sighted and finally catched his gaze.

“About me. About my past.”

“Of course I know, Aramis.” he rested his elbows on the desk and took all the papers, putting them in a drawer to the left. “And I don’t care about it.” he said when the younger opened his mouth. “It’s your _past_. What matters is the present.”

“How can you know that I won’t--”

“I don’t.” Treville stood up. He picked up one of the pictures on his desk while doing so. “And I don’t think that Porthos or Athos would care if they found out. They do know about it, just can’t remember. It was a long time ago. More than half a decade.” the Captain walked around, rearranging things, photo still in his hand.

“We have met before?”

“Yes. But neither of you seem to remember.” Treville gave him the photo.

It was of a young Porthos and Athos. They were beardless and were smiling. They were still Police officers here. Whatever had happened to Athos for him to be so depressing still hadn’t ocurred.

“They are like my own sons, those two.” Treville laughed. “Stubborn idiots, but with good hearts.”

“True that.” Aramis gave back the photo. “You want me to remember.”

The Cpatain nodded.

“I don’t see it working.” he said and sat back down, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and his index finger. “You are free to go, Aramis.”

Aramis turned to leave and had his hand on the handle.

“They won’t judge you. Tell them when you think it’s right. Trust them, kiddo.”

Aramis stood still for a moment. He left without saying anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! =)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of the wonferful comments as always, lovelies, as well as for the kudos!
> 
> I'm not satisfied with this chapter that much, but, oh well. Here you go!
> 
> Any mistakes are my own!

Porthos knew that look Aramis had before he went to the Captain’s office. His mother often had it when he asked about his dad. He remembers how her face changed from a warm grin, to hollow eyes and a cold smile even when he was barely five then. But in a moment or two she would realize what she had done and change back to normal.

“I’m sorry, darling.” she would say and run a hand through his curls. Then he would ask her what was wrong. “Nothing, my love.” she would answer and he would nod, hugging his mother and burying his head in her clothed tummy. She would laugh and read stories to him before and after dinner, then tuck him in bed afterwards.

It hadn’t been a glamorous life, but it was all he needed. Until it was taken away from him.

The smell took him out of his thoughts. He snapped his head towards the scent that he would never mistake and always love – greasy, stuffed with fat food that is so delicious and at the same time so unhealthy.

Aramis stood in the doorway with a smile on his face. He had two plastic bags in one hand and another one in his other.

“Is that…?” even Athos couldn’t resist the absolutely divine smell. Aramis only raised his eyebrows suggestively. He took out a pizza and a enormous hamburger from one of the bags, putting them in two separate plastic plates that they keep just in case and gave them to Porthos.

“Only pizza wouldn’t have sated you, so…”

Before he finished his sentence Porthos took a large bite of the hamburger and moaned, swiping a bit of garlic sauce with his thumb from the corner of his mouth.

“So goo’.” he said with his mouth full and sighted in delight.

Aramis gave Athos a burger, who nodded his head in thanks. He, unlike Porthos, had manners and swallowed first before talking.

“How do they make it so…”

“Spctculr.” Porthos tried to say with his mouth full again. When that didn’t work he swallowed and took a breath. “Spectacular. No, seriously. How do they do it?”

“It’s always that sentence with you, isn’t it. _“No, seriously”_?” Aramis smirked and took out the last burger that was for himself.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

That reminded the both of them of the night during the first week Aramis had become a part of the team. The only missing things were Porthos craning his neck at an uncomfortable angle and them being drunk.

“Enough, you five year olds.”

“At least we admit it.” Aramis pointed Athos with his burger that he held in both hands. After that he took a bite. Finally.

Aramis like Porthos moaned at the first bite, the difference being that he did it like he was a porn star. Both Athos and Porthos were about to bite from theirs, but had stopped when they heard the sound.

“What?”

They were looking at him. Porthos’s eyes were wide and stayed wide when he turned towards the food in his hands, his eyebrows raised impressively high. Athos on the other hand looked like somebody had killed another person in front of him in the most brutal way and he opened his mouth to say something, though nothing came out.

 _“Okay.”_ said Porthos instead of him and took another bite.

“Anyway. Sorry for snapping at you.” Aramis kept his eyes averted and nibbled on his food.

“S’alright. Sorry for being so persistent.” Porthos catched his eyes, telling him wordlessly that it was fine.

“It’s just that… I’m not good with sharing personal crap and to be honest I don’t like people knowing about my personal crap. They always… pity me and try to help, but in the process they or I screw things up.” Aramis looked at both of them. “And I don’t want to screw things up with you guys. My friendships almost never last this long nowadays.”

“Are you telling us that _we_ are your only friends?”

“I said “almost never”.” when Athos made his “sassy face” ,as Porthos referred to it, he sighted. “I have one more.”

“One. One? _One?_ But you're the most social being I have ever seen!” Porthos waved around his burger while he gesticulated. Aramis shrugged and looked at the floor. “Oi, I’m not saying that we’re not glad to be your friends. I’m just… shocked that you of all people are so alone.”

“I’m not alone.” Aramis frowned.

“You just stated that we’re your only friends.”

“I have my books.” he shrugged. “And music.” he didn’t know why, but he decided to keep quiet about the art. Not that he was ashamed of it. Hell no. It was like a primal instinct. Something was telling him to shut up.

“But that’s not living and breathing beings.” Athos took the cup of water that was on his desk and had few quick gulps. “They are inanimate objects. They can’t talk to you or comfort you.”

“Exactly.” Aramis said and swallowed. He really had to shut up.

“You don’t want to talk to people? Then you shouldn’t have become a Homicide Investigator.” Porthos said before he put the last bit in his mouth. Next was the pizza.

“I just don’t like to talk to people about my problems.”

“Why?”

“I just don’t.”

“But _why_?”

“ _Gentlmen_. Don’t start this again.”

“He won’t give me a clear answer.”

“Stop acting like a little kid.”

“Not until you give me an answer.”

“Would _you_ like to talk about your past and all the shit you’ve been through that willingly?”

That shut up the other man. Athos looked from one to the other, expecting things to explode at any moment. Aramis and Porthos had become good friends, but when they fought, they did it loudly - with a lot of shouting and yelling, loads of Spanish curses that Aramis has yet to teach them and not a few broken things in their way. They were like a tornado.

“No.” Porthos finally said.

The “There’s your answer.” went unsaid as Aramis bit in the soft bread filled with delicious ingredients.

 

The rest of the day went on slowly. Treville didn’t let them have a case and told them to go home. Aramis stayed back a bit to talk with the Captain.

“The thing from this mornin’?” Porthos looked at the closed persiennes. Treville kept them like that only when there was a really important conversation going on.

“What did we say about pushing him?”

“He needs to let it out. It’s eating him away.”

“If he wants to tell us – he will.”

“We were so _stupid_. How could we not ask Treville for any information whatsoever? I don’t even know his last name.”

Athos shook his head.

“He probably has his reasons. It’s none of our business.”

“He’s our _friend,_ Athos.”

“And it’s _his_ privacy. Like I said, if he wants to tell us – he will.”

Constance joined them in the cold night.

“I’m glad that everybody is so cheerful. So, are we still going?”

“Yes.” Athos zipped his jacket. Porthos raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t look like that.” Constance swatted him and stepped on his foot with her heel to which he yelped. “He’s helping me pick a new wardrobe since the last one almost tried to kill me the other evening by almost falling on me. I don’t want any more junk.”

“Ow.”

A brief smile was noticed on Athos’s face.

“And what happened here?” Aramis walked towards them with his hands in the pockets of his black leather jacket.

“Nothin’.” Porthos rubbed his head and gave Constance a pointed look.

“Goodnight, gentlemen.” Athos and Constance left them in the parking lot.

“You want me to escort you to your place?”

“I _can_ walk, Porthos.”

“And you have twenty-seven stitches on your side and a not so pretty bruise to accompany it. You’re not goin’ home alone. Anythin’ can happen.”

Aramis rolled his eyes, but lead the way.

He was fifteen minutes away from work in an apartment on the second floor. It was too big for him and most of the time he was lonely, but there wasn’t another place he could find.

When they arrived it got a bit awkward, because upstairs was a mess and Aramis didn’t want people in his home when it looked like it had been trashed by a hurricane of paints and oils. It still probably reeked of them since he painted in the morning due the nightmare he had.

They were starting to become regular again. And that was bad.

When he looked at Porthos he saw a drop of sweat trickle down his jaw. In an instant he knew that something was wrong. He was just about to ask, but the other man beat him to it and opened his mouth first.

“I need to pee.” he said with guilty eyes.

Aramis howled with laughter.

 

Indeed, it smelled the way he predicted. But Aramis didn’t think that Porthos paid a lot of attention to it when his bladder was calling.

“The door to the left.” he said while he took off his shoes. Porthos had already done that. The door slammed so loud it echoed in the apartment, reminding Aramis how big it actually was.

He went to the kitchen and filled a glass of water, drinking it afterwards. Then he took off his jacket and hung it in the wardrobe. He changed to the clothes he wore at home which were spattered with paint.

“Wow.”

He hadn’t even realized that the water in the bathroom was running, but now Porthos was in the living room.

A hand was outstretched, but it only hovered over the painting, because it was still wet with water from when he washed.

On the painting was a scene in their own office that had happened a few months back – Athos was seated in the chair, blue orbs glued to the board with evidence while Porthos was standing with his hip resting on his desk, one hand over his chest, the other was swirling a pen. Aramis hadn’t painted himself in it, because he didn’t like to look in the mirror.

Porthos was still looking at it in awe. It was so realistic that at first he though that it was a gigantic picture, but the smell of paint said otherwise.

He turned to Aramis and was surprised to find him in something other than a dress shirt, tie and trousers. Though even with the clothes that were ruined by the paint he still managed to look good.

“So this is what you do in your spare time. Apart from all readin’.” Porthos pointed at the big bookcase that took most of the right wall and at all of the books that were left either on the ground, on the couch, by the window or in a pile on the TV.

There was a sketchbook left open on the table. And, of course, it had to be on a page where he had drawn Porthos. Said man took it and gently caught the piece of paper with his large hands.

“Can I?”

“Go ahead.”

He didn’t want Porthos to look, but he couldn’t say “I can’t let you see it, because most of the sketches there are of you.”. Or maybe that was the sketchbook in his bedroom?

Aramis turned left and opened the door, getting in the room. Ah, yes. The sketchbook with all the sketches he had done of Porthos was here. As well as the one with all the things he could remember from his childhood. And the drawings of Marsac and Anne. Another sketchbook where he drew whatever he saw, just so he could do something with his hands. If all of these were _here_ , that meant …

He ran back to the living room. His side hurt and throbbed.

Porthos had this wide-eyed look again and wouldn’t stop flipping page after page.

That was the sketchbook that contained all of those bloody memories he couldn’t forget as much as he tried to, so he put them on paper instead. From the massacre where Marsac had passed away to the terrors of his childhood when his mother and father had died in a car accident. As well as some of the hallucination that he got when he was high back when he used heroin that to this day haunted him and left him alone only when he recreated them on the white paper.

He couldn’t find it for weeks. Maybe it was true when people said that the thing you are looking for is right in front of your eyes. Like right now.

Aramis snatched it from Porthos and flipped it shut with both his hands. He marched towards his room again and threw the sketchbook in it with little care where it landed, then shut the room. When he got back to the living room for a second time, Porthos still stood as if he was holding something in his hands, hadn’t moved an inch.

“Aramis.”

“It’s nothing.” he hissed.

“I would have punched you if you weren’t wounded. How is that nothing?” Porthos turned towards him and pointed at the corridor that went to Aramis’s room. “Sit down.” he pointed the couch.

“You--”

_“Sit down.”_

Aramis ran a hand through his hair and did as he was told, the heels of his hands covering his eyes. He felt how the cushions dipped down under Porthos’s weight.

“What’s going on?” He didn’t answer. A minute passed. And another.

There was a hand on his shoulder that squeezed it.

“If I share, will you too?”

He didn’t expect that. The shouting, the anger – yes. But not that.

Aramis removed the hands from his eyes, turning his head slightly to his friend. He clenched his jaw.

“No.”

“Aramis--”

“ _No_.” he got up. “I told you – I don’t want to share.”

“Why not? I’m not going to judge you, dumbass. I want to help. Because clearly you have had those nightmares for a long time. Years probably.”

“I don’t want help. I don’t _need_ help. Not anymore.”

Aw, shit. Did that have to slip?

“Not anymore? How am I supposed to interpret that?”

“The way you heard it. Listen, I’m fine now. It’s not going to happen again.”

Double shit.

“ _What_ is not going to happen again?”

Aramis sighted loudly, taking a deep breath afterwards. If only his vocal cords could stop working.

“It just won’t, okay?” he ran his palm over his face, clenching and unclenching his fist.

Porthos got up so fast he startled the other and headed towards Aramis’s room.

Aramis threw himself on the older one’s back , legs around his waist, hands covering his sight. The bad part was that he hadn’t thought it through and had forgotten that Porthos followed his instincts which told him that the attacker had to go down. Porthos caught his sides viciously and tried to pull him off, but when that didn’t work he went backwards, hitting Aramis in the nearest wall a few times until he let go.

A tearing was heard.

Aramis breathed in through his nose and sat on the ground.

He lifted his shirt to find that at least seven stitches had been ripped.

He exhaled.

Porthos was on his knees, guilt and worry written on his face.

“Shit. I…”

“I provoked you. You just defended yourself. It’s called instinct.”

Once he knew the damage, he got up and went to the bathroom for his first aid kit. Porthos followed him, not knowing what to do with his hands that had already done enough.

“It was fucking stupid.”

“No, _I_ was fucking stupid.” he pulled out the thread, a needle, some disinfectant and a bit of clothing that he used to stop the bleeding. “Stop looking like a kicked puppy and go to the my room to get me more—no, scratch that. Don’t do anything. Just… stay _there_.”

Aramis wet the cloth on the sink. He took of his shirt, hissing while doing so.

He put some of the alcohol he kept in a glass bottle over the wound to disinfect it, dipping the needle in the liquid as well.

“You… you’re gonna…”

Aramis caught his eyes with his. He looked like he was about to say something, but shook his head.

“The painkillers? Where are they?”

“Nope.”

“Aramis, you can't just-.”

“ _Nope_. I’ve done this before with even worse wounds so I’m going to manage without them, thank you.” he said, his clenched teeth, threading the needle through his skin.

He had almost made two stitches when Porthos placed his hand on his back, the thumb gently making circles over the skin. Aramis stopped a few times to catch his breath, but in less than fifteen minutes he was done. The bruise was already getting darker.

“I thought I told you to stop looking like that. It wasn’t your fault.”

“If I told you that would you believe it? That it wasn’t your fault. Whatever happened.”

“You…” Aramis pointed him and licked his lips. “You _don’t_ know what happened.” he shook his head while saying so. “I wasn’t able to… he… If I was…” he swallowed. “You don’t-”

“Know. Then tell me.”

Aramis turned the water on, wetting the cloth again and bringing it to his flesh to clean the dried blood. He knew that he was acting like an absolute idiot, but he didn’t like touchy-feely things. After Marsac he had vowed not to love like that again. He broke the vow when he started loving Anne, though this time like a sister. Thankfully. The only person with whom he shared everything of everything was Anne. The end.

Porthos started humming a song.

_“I heard you in the wind with my face toward the sun, sparrows danced above my head and dived on their way home…”_

Aramis’s movements ceased.

He left the cloth in the sink and went to his room. He took the sketchbook that he had thrown earlier and flipped through the pages, knowing exactly what he was looking for. He had drawn a pendant with beautiful symbols on it six years back. One night he just came up with it.

There. The same. They were the _same_.

Porthos stood in the doorway, but he wasn’t looking at Aramis. No, his brown eyes were focused on the old guitar by his bed. One of his hand pulled something that had been under the shirt.

The pendant. Like the one of the white pages under Aramis’s fingertips. It was shining in the dull light of the room. Porthos kept it exposed for him to see.

Their eyes met.

Aramis dropped the sketchbook.

“René. René _Aramis_ d’Herblay.” Porthos muttered to himself and stepped forward while Aramis took a step back, the back of his knees hitting the bed.

His face was unreadable to Porthos, half hidden in darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Hope I didn't disappoint!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the encouragement, you lovelies! Hugs and kisses for everybody!
> 
> Any mistakes are my own!
> 
> Music for this chappie:  
> Snow Ghosts - And The World Was Gone  
> Safetysuit - Find A Way  
> Ryan Star - We Might Fall  
> Rodrigo y Gabriela - South Of Heaven's Chanting Mermaids

When the back of his knees hit the bed his heart sped up. He could feel it thumping in his chest, could hear the blood rushing through his veins. He had his back to the window and was glad for it, because he knew that most of his face was invisible, covered by the dark.

The only light came from the living room, but Porthos was no small person and filled most of the door frame, letting little pass through.

With the only exit blocked and the other option being him jumping from the window behind him he felt more and more like in a cage. And he hated small spaces. His heart rate was getting higher until he felt his whole body pulsing in time with the organ keeping him alive.

Aramis bit his tongue. That didn’t help. He was numb and couldn’t even feel the stitches pulling against his skin. That was bad.

As bad as the adrenalin that made his fingers twitch.

If he didn’t stop he was probably going to have a panic attack which wasn’t good for anybody.

Due the lack of light he wasn’t able to tell when Porthos had moved, but when it he did his body moved backwards.

Porthos freezed.

Aramis's memories didn’t seem all that foggy anymore. Before, he blamed it on the drugs, but now that he saw the pendant it all started coming back to him. That was the thing that Treville was trying to trigger by giving him the picture of a younger Porthos and Athos. Maybe if Porthos had that scar before, he would have. Maybe if he actually looked at the other man, instead of gazing outside, thinking what would have happened if he had not been saved he would have remembered.

Shit.

He wasn’t supposed to think about that. He wasn’t supposed to let his mind skim to something that he could connect back to drugs. Anne was the only exception he let happen. Now that he thought about it Anne was an exception to almost everything.

He was shivering.

He was craving.

**_Shit._ **

They shouldn’t have drugged him.

“Hey.” Porthos had hunched over a bit, his hands in front of him. It was like six years ago. History really did repeat itself.

“Stay away.” Aramis stepped on the bed and moved backwards until he felt the end. Then his feet found the ground again. At least now there was some space between them, even it was solely a bed that Porthos could easily cross in two steps.

“Aramis.”

Aramis rested his back on the window, grateful for the cold glass against his burning skin.

Porthos looked desperate and maybe a little hurt.

He knew that he probably looked like a nutcase – his hair was a mess, clothes covered in paint, wild look in his eyes. If he could, he would become one with the window. His hands were glued to the wall.

What did Porthos think of him now?

 _“The guy that overdosed six years ago?”_ , _“The guy who would have died if we hadn’t saved him?”_ , _“The pathetic junkie?”_ – was any of that going through Porthos’s mind in this moment?

He knew that he shouldn’t give a damn, but he did.

His legs couldn’t hold him up anymore. His back started sliding against the wall, but before his bum could hit the ground strong hands hauled him upwards.

“Hey! Look at me!” Porthos pointed his own eyes with one hand while the other kept him against the window.

Aramis started breathing faster and faster.

“Athos, he just… he suddenly turned so pale. And I think he’s hyperventilating’.” Aramis hadn’t even seen when Porthos had taken out his phone and had called Athos. The man on the other side of the line must have said something because Porthos let him slide down the wall again so he could sit down.

“His heart is beating like mad.” Porthos had one hand against the side of his throat as if to monitor his heartbeat. “I think he’s gonna faint. Wha—how do you—never mind. Yeah. As soon as possible. No, no ambulance. Yeah, I’m sure.” Porthos placed the phone on the ground after he hung up.

“Oi, look at me.” Porthos’s other hand cupped his jaw until Aramis was facing him. “Yeah, that’s right, come on.”

“No… don’t…” Aramis tried to swat the hands away, but his own felt too heavy that he could barely lift them. Porthos quickly understood and let him go, keeping himself at a more bearable distance.

Aramis was finally able to take a deep breath. He kept it for a while, but exhaled quickly when the man in front of him frowned. Porthos raised his eyebrows and in return Aramis nodded.

“You were hyperven--”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were.” Aramis gave him his _I-have-had-enough-crap-for-one-fucking-day-so-don’t-you-dare_ stare and Porthos kept his mouth shut.

Aramis averted his eyes again. There were a few stray curls that had glued themselves to his temple and Porthos fought the urge to move them away. A sheen of sweat covered the other man’s skin, but his color was starting to return.

“So…” Porthos scratched his neck.

“No weather conversations.”

“Then what am supposed to say?” even that didn’t make Aramis look at him.

“Are you going to tell Athos?” Aramis’s voice was uncharacteristically quiet. His arms were limp at his sides and he looked like a doll that had it’s strings cut.

Porthos didn’t answer. He took off his jacket, covering Aramis with it and got up. He took the sketchbook from the ground.

“Did you stop? After we found you?”

“No.” Aramis blinked. “But I’m not using right now. Been clean for a few years.”

“Right now, huh?” Porthos flipped through the pages again. He rounded the bed and sat next to the other male. “As terrifying as they look, they’re all beautiful. In a way.”

Aramis didn’t answer.

“They are my demons.” A few moments of silence. “And if I could I would beat the living shit out of them.”

He was joking. When Aramis joked it meant that things were getting better. Little by little.

Porthos looked at the DVD to his left and the TV that was put on the high cabinet which contained loads of CDs and movies. A particular title catched Porthos’s eye.

“Wanna watch Pirates of the Caribbean?”

Porthos had always dreamed to be a pirate and absolutely loved when his mother read him stories of them. That’s why he still kept the golden earring on his ear. It reminded him of who he was, who he wanted to be, of his childhood, of his dreams… And it kept the memory of his mother alive. He’s had it for at least twenty-five years.

He still remembered the night when she had come back with a small velvet box and a needle in hand. He clenched his teeth over the pain, barely succeeding in doing so, for he was still a little boy at the age of five. She singed to him of pirates and gold and lost treasure while piercing his ear.

The feeling was strange, but he got used to it quickly, smiling every time he saw the shiny gold.

“Aye.” Aramis was looking at him, then his gaze flickered to his earing and his scar which in coincidence where at the same side of his face. “Though, I think that I am looking at one now.”

The younger man wasn’t making fun of him and Porthos knew that. The smile was genuine.

He still remembered how six years ago said male was slumped in his chair, not moving, not talking, not _looking_. Only existing jut because he had to. How those sad brown eyes often filled with clear liquid that never fell and how they ignored his own. How he would clench his jaw when Porthos talked to him like he was stopping himself from jumping out the window. How he almost always had his knees to his chest, even in the rare moments when he slept. Porthos had witnessed him doing so only two times in the week Aramis was at his home and the dark circles under his eyes proved that he barely closed his eyes.

Himself and Athos moved him to Porthos’s place as soon as the doctors let them, in hope of getting some information that could help them catch their guy out of the boy, but with no avail.

He always sat in the same armchair and at the second day his hands didn’t leave their place over his stomach. He had gone pale and was sweating. He wouldn’t eat or drink anything and Porthos was getting hopeless. Whenever he reached out the younger would tense and hunch. Porthos had left a jug full of water and a cup even when he was a little scared that the other would use it to harm himself, but he didn’t have much of a choice.

The next morning the jug was empty and left on the kitchen table along with the cup.

But that was the Aramis back then.

The Aramis that he had worked for more than half a year was cheerful, always made sure that Porthos and Athos were fine before checking himself. He couldn’t stay mad at anybody for long. He constantly bough them (Constance and Treville included) sweets, insisting that they needed energy and a tad bit of happiness in their lives.

Then Porthos’s mind went to that moment when Aramis was in the ambulance, how scared he had looked when the medic even mentioned the word “drugs”, how after all the lost blood he had clutched at his shirt and then afterwards when they left him at his apartment - he had been so quiet and was trying to hide his awful mood, by shooting them false smiles that didn’t reach his empty eyes.

Which reminded him.

“Where’s the Vicodin?”

The small lift of Aramis’s lips melted. He turned away again and blinked, lifting his chin to point at the brown leather bag that stood in the far corner of the room.

Porthos stood up and opened the front pocket, immediately finding what he seeked.

“They haven’t been opened.” he said and looked at Aramis, who was gazing at him as well. Then he opened the bottle with a pop which made Aramis flinch, but they didn’t break eye contact. “Do you need any?” Aramis didn’t answer straight ahead.

His eyes moved to the white bottle in Porthos’s hands like that morning in Athos’s kitchen. He peeled his eyes off them only after a minute of intense staring and shook his head for a “no”.

Porthos closed the bottle and left it where it had been.

“No.” he was just about to zip the pocket. "Take it.” there was a desperate note to the other’s voice.

“I trust you.”

“But _I_ don’t trust _me_.” In the end Porthos threw the bottle in the hallway, close to where his shoes were.

Aramis relaxed instantly.

“The Pirates.” Porthos crouched in front of the cabinet filled with movies. He gently took out the first part of the series, expecting everything to crash down, but on the contrary it didn’t. It was a pyramid of chaos.

The ringtone on his phone ruined the perfect silence. Young the Giant’s “My Body” sounded so loud that Aramis jumped and hit his head in the windowsill. Porthos quickly took a hold of the device and answered.

“Yeah?”

 _“How is he?”_ Athos sounded from the other line. _“The fastest we can get there is in half an hour. Can you keep him stable until then?”_

“He’s fine now, it’s all under control.”

_“Are we needed?”_

Aramis snatched the phone out of Porthos’s hand.

“I am fine, Athos. Relax. Just a rough evening, nothing to fear.” he said, sounding so normal that if Porthos hadn’t witnessed what had happened barely minutes ago he would have thought that everything was alright.

How many times had Aramis lied to them, telling them that he was okay when he was actually fighting Hell? How many times had they believed his voice? How many times did he have to go through this alone?

“You can continue that wardrobe searching with Constance. And, for God’s sake, have dinner.”

And yet again Aramis put somebody else before himself. They both knew of Athos’s eating habits – if he wasn't told to eat or didn’t have the food shoved down his throat he could last days without putting anything in his mouth that wasn’t alcohol. Athos’s sigh was heard.

 _“We are going to talk about this in the morning. Do not think that I will let this slide, Aramis.”_ the line went dead.

Aramis handed his phone back, trying to get up while using the bed for support.

Porthos took ahold of him, one hand around his waist, the other putting a slender arm around his neck.

“Bed?”

Aramis nodded. He had his head down, feeling ashamed that he needed help to lay on his own bed. Everything was still a bit woozy and he felt like he couldn’t control most of his body yet. He had a slight tremor in his left hand and his heart skipped a bit every time the shadows moved.

Porthos turned them with their backs to the bed so he could rest Aramis on his backside without having the other to move much. He put the disc in the DVD and climbed in the bed, his back on wooden frame.

It was awkward.

Neither knew what to say.

Porthos still couldn’t believe that the man sitting next to him was the same person who overdosed on heroin, whom he and Athos had saved. But the drawings of his pendant that were from six years ago, the scent of paint that had been so familiar to him and the guitar all said that it was true.

He wanted to punch himself for not remembering the face that had haunted his dreams and in most of them the brown eyes were lifeless, the boy dead and he was not able to save him this time. Although Aramis looked so different with a beard. If he shaved it off he would probably look younger than he was, just like back then.

Aramis on the other hand was contemplating on whether or not he should run away and never come back here. He had done it before, he could do it again. He could change his name this time, just to be sure, a new identity, a new life. Nobody except Anne would know who he really was.

But he was sick of running away from his problems, avoiding them until he had no choice but to face them or until they faded away. Porthos and Athos didn’t deserve it.

There was light nudge in his clavicle from above.

Porthos patted his own shoulder.

“Come on. Up.” the older man helped him to a sitting position. Their shoulders brushed.

Aramis tried to put a little space between them by moving his legs, but Porthos’s ankle trapped his.

“Uh-uh, you’re not goin’ anywhere.” Aramis sighted. He was too tired to deal with this right now, so he just relaxed every muscle in his body. Once he had done that he realized exactly how exhausted he was. His side hurt, but it was nothing compared to when he had to stitch himself up. Sure, he had done it more times than he could remember, but it never got easier.

“Does it hurt?” Porthos asked, his hand lifted to start the DVD, his fingers not touching the green button yet.

“Yeah.” there was no use in lying.

“You said that you were clean for a few years, right?” Porthos turned towards him. Aramis knew where this was going. “Would it really be that bad if you took only one or two pills?”

“Yes.”

“They drugged you in the hospital. Did that do any damage?”

“Yes.”

“Were you craving afterwards?” The reason Aramis had gone to work instead of resting at home was because there he wasn’t that tempted. At night he was tired from all the pain and the documents since Treville had insisted they didn’t get a case for a week at least. Had he stayed home he would have taken Vicodin without doubt. He hadn’t opened the bottle, though there were some times he had sat on the couch with it in his hands, thinking of the pros and cons, going against his rule to avoid anything that he could connect to drugs, tugging the Dveil by the tail. But he was a coward and couldn’t flush the evil little things down the toilet or just throw them out.

“Yes.”

“Are you craving _now_?”

If only Anne was here… She always knew how to deal with him, what to do, how to help him.

“Yes.”

His fingers clenched and unclenched. He wasn’t supposed to think about drugs.

 _“Lock the door and hide the key.”_ Anne had said, she was always fond of metaphors. _“Stand up and wash your face.”_

He did just so.

Porthos called out his name.

There was still some blood on the edge of the sink. The cold water helped him wake up.

 _“Drink some water.”_ he lowered his head until his lips touched the jet of liquid crystal and had a few gulps of it. _“Now watch it.”_ he moved away, his eyes observing. _“See the running water? Those are all those thought that you can’t let go of. Look at them. They are down the drain now, aren’t they?”_ it was like she was right there with him.

“Hold your breath and count to ten.” a soft voice sounded behind him. He lifted his eyes to Porthos’s reflection in the mirror.

Aramis inhaled and started counting.

_One._

His hands gripped the icy sink.

_Two._

Porthos stepped in the bathroom.

_Three._

He was getting closer.

_Four._

The water stopped.

_Five._

There was a warm hand between Aramis’s shoulder blades.

_Six._

Another one rested over his stitches and bruise, mindful not to put a lot of pressure.

_Seven._

Aramis couldn’t think, his mind blank. Finally.

_Eight._

Porthos found his eyes in the mirror.

_Nine._

He could feel his body again, the cold tiles under his feet, the warmness that was radiating off Porthos’s hands.

_Ten._

Porthos moved the hand between his shoulder blades up to his neck and gently squeezed.

“Breathe, you idiot.”

Aramis laughed quietly.

“Right.” he said and filled his lungs with oxygen. “I believe we were going to watch Jack Sparrow.”

Porthos removed his hands, but patted his right shoulder before heading back to the bedroom. Aramis followed. They sat on the bed, Porthos locking their ankles again.

“Have you never heard of personal space, my friend?”

“Me? Never.” they shared a smile. “Better?” Porthos asked while he gave him a towel he had taken on his way out of the bathroom.

“Definitely.” Aramis accepted it, drying his face and neck, then he threw it to his left.

The movies started, but by the time Jack dived in the water to save Elizabeth Aramis’s eyelids were dropping. He rested his head on Porthos’s shoulder. A hand drove him closer.

Was it good idea? Probably not. Did he enjoy it? God, yes!

He closed his eyes.

Fingers roamed through his wild hair. That was one of his weaknesses. The only person who he had let touch it was his mother, Marsac and Anne when he needed a haircut. But Porthos’s fingers were so skilled and knew exactly where to apply pressure.

A shiver went down his spine.

A weak spot, indeed.

_“Buenas noches, René.”_

“Your accent sucks.” that earned Aramis a smack over the head.

“Shut up.” Porthos’s whole body vibrated when he said that which caused Aramis to regret this decision once more, but since it was way too comfortable for him to give up this place he didn’t move. “Go to sleep.”

All the sounds from the TV started blurring and maybe he imagined it, but a kiss was placed atop his curls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Hope I didn't disappoint! =)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took way too long than I expected, for which I am sorry!
> 
> Special thanks to AliciaLuar for helping with the Spanish translation (I wouldn't have been able to do it without you!! ^^) and to Yavelee (Theresa) for being such a darling and motivating me :3! Thank you so much! *hugs*
> 
> Any mistakes are my own!

When he woke up he was so warm that his whole body was sweating.

There was a heavy arm over his chest, put a bit above the wound, keeping his back close to a musculed chest.

Aramis felt Porthos’s breath on his neck, making him shiver.

Porthos’s other arm was under Aramis’s head and it should have been uncomfortable, but it wasn't. He was warm for a change, not alone in the big bed, cold covers drapled over him. He was tempted to just fall asleep again, though the clock told him otherwise. They had to leave for work in an hour and he had to bathe. Porthos would probably want to too.

Aramis tried to get the arm around him off of him. Every time he moved further Porthos’s fingers clutched tighter, bringing him back to that hot chest. He failed all the five times he tried to get up. The sixth he caught Porthos’s wrist and gently pulled it up, managing to crawl to the end of the bed a second before Porthos’s hand grabbed at epmty space.

He watched as his friend frowned, but didn’t wake up. Thankfuly.

Aramis sat at the edge, observing Porthos for as long as he could.

He was just about to stand up when a hand snatched his wrist so he ended up back in the warm covers.

He tilted his head ot the side to find half-lidded brown eyes gazing at him.

“Where do you think you’re goin’?” Porthos’s voice was rough with sleep.

When he became awere of his surroundings the dark brown orbs widened and he let go of Aramis like he was burned.

“Sorry.” he mumbled in the pillow.

Aramis finaly got to his feet and took a change of clothes, underwear and a white towel, heading towards the bathroom.

The warm water was magical to him and his sore muscles. He looked at the stitches and the bruise, surprised that the black was already replced by a green, purple and lighter shades of blue. The stitches were holding up perfectly, though he still couldn’t wash his hair, because once he lifted his arms there was a sharp pain that runned through his whole torso.

Aramis crouched, taking the shampoo bottle with him, head almost touching his knees.

Fuck.

It still hurt.

He sighted.

How come when he took of his shirt or put it on it didn’t hurt as much as it did now?

 _“Me cago en las heridas. Me cago en los puntos. Me cago en los moratones. ¡Me cago en todo!”_ he growled. Even his control faltered at times like this. That’s when he started talking in his mother language. He hasn’t been injured that bad in years and had forgotten what it was to constantly watch how he moved.

 _“¡Mierda!”_ he lost his balance and fell on his bum, making a loud splashing sound while doing so, water going everywhere.

 _“¡Tienes que estar bromeando!”_ he ran a hand through his hair. _"Esto no puede empeorar."_

“Aramis?” was shouted probably from the bedroom. Loud footsteps followed, then a knock. “Aramis? You alright in there.”

 _"Obviamente, puede."_ the water was dripping down his face, the stream hitting him directly in the head. _“¡Todo bien!”_ Aramis shouted back, hands clawing at the tiles. He got to his knees. Maybe he would have succeeded if Porthos handn’t banged at the door.

“I’m coming in!”

 _“¡No, no lo hagas!”_ Aramis yelled, but slipped yet again. _“Oh, ¡que le jodan!”_ he threw his arms in the air, afterwards putting them on the ground at his sides just so he didn’t lay on his back.

There was a loud crack and the door brust open.

Porthos was just about to step in when he saw Aramis who was upright only by the help of his arms, one leg rested on the wall, the other at a ninty degree angle on the tiled floor, leaving everything exposed. He was pissed.

_"¡Estás dejando que entre el frío!"_

“I don’t know Spanish, you idiot.”

“I said: you’re letting the cold in.” Aramis repeated in English. Only now did he notice that Porthos was only wearing a shirt and boxers.

Which he took off, threw in the corridor and closed the door which was surprisingly still in it’s hinges.

“What are you doing?” Aramis looked away.

“It’s not like you haven’t seen another man naked before.” he could hear the grin in the Porthos’s voice even though he couldn’t see it. “You can’t wash without pulling the stitches. And I know you hate it when your hair is greasy.” Porthos sat on ground next to him, showehead in his right hand, gesturing with his fngers for Aramis to turn around.

Aramis turned and hunched.

This wasn’t good.

The possibility of him reacting to Porthos’s touch was not small. Maybe he would be able to control himself. Key word: maybe.

He felt something cold, realizing that the other man had put shampoo on his head. Two hands followed, fingers rumaging through his wet mane.

Aramis wanted to put his forehead on the wall and just relax, but the foam was going to get in his eyes. A few shivers ran down his spine and no doubt his skin was covered in goosebumps now.

Shit.

Porthos’s fingers made slow cicles, traveling around his head.

He would just blame it on the cold.

Aramis couldn’t stop the quiet moan that sounded in the back of his throat.

 _That_ , he couldn’t blame on the cold.

A hand caught his chin gently, lifting his head higher. Porthos washed off the shampoo, one hand holding the showerhead while the other ran through the locks to make the process faster. Aramis thought that it was finally over, glad that he wasn’t hard.

Aramis – 1, Universe – 0.

That was until Porthos’s hands travelled over his shoulders, again making gentle circles. They reached his nape. Fingernails scratched at the bumps of his spine, following it down until he reached Aramis’s shoulder baldes.

Porthos knew just where to aply pressure, where to go gentle.

Aramis finally rested his forehead on the wall, whole body limp. He hasn’t been this relaxed maybe in years.

“So there _is_ a way for you to relax.” Porthos laughed. For a moment Aramis remembered that night when Porthos had accused him of reading his mind.

“You cheeky bastard.” Aramis muttered. He was so distracted that when Porthos’s chin was on his shoulder he almost jumped.

“Cheeky bastard, huh?” Porthos tickled his tummy, making Aramis laugh.

Aramis wanted to wriggle out of this, but he didn’t do so in fear of ripping his stitches again. Porthos was careful with the injuries his friend had, instead going for Aramis’s belly, ribs and arms. It was a relief to see the younger laugh. The truth about Aramis might have surfaced, but Porthos’s reactions didn’t change. He still got warm when the other laughed, still got gloomy when Aramis was in a foul mood, his stomach still did those ridiculous flips when he first saw him for the day, he still didn’t care about personal space when he was around Aramis, always having a hand on his shoulder, nape or lower back.

He still remembered those skilled fingers that played the guitar and he caught himself humming the song a little after Aramis had fallen asleep with his head on his shoulder just a few hours ago. He couldn’t concentrate on the movie even though pirates were one of his favourite things.

Aramis tensed under his fingers as if he had read Porthos’s thought.

“I don’t care.” Porthos said, tightening his hold. “I don’t care who you were or what you did.” Aramis stopped moving altogether. “You understand me? I.” Aramis swallowed. “Don’t.” his hair was dripping in his eyes, down to his chin. “Care.” he lifted his elbows, thus lifting Porthos’s arms, trying to make a bit of space between them.

They were still in the shower. Naked at that.

Porthos got the hint and got up, lifting Aramis by the armpits.

“Up you go. C’mon, that’s it.”

The water was still running, the showerhead forgotten on the tiled floor until Aramis almost didn’t land on his face. Porthos caught him by the armpits again.

“Oi!” Porthos growled when Aramis kicked the showerhead, but it sprayed them more from the place it landed.

Porthos caught Aramis’s face in his hands, taking the few inches of height diffrence to his advantage.

“I don’t care, alright?” he repeated, this time in a softer voice.

“What if I slip?” Aramis inhaled. “I think I'm slipping. Again.”

“You won’t. And if you do – we’ll be there. Athos, Constance, the Captain. _Me_.”

Aramis’s previously wet hair was now starting to dry, the curls coming to life. He moved away, exiting the bathroom with his clothes in hand, putting them on the way to corridor. He took the Vicodin that was next to Porthos’s shoes, flipping it through in his hand a few times.

Porthos stopped the shower and followed him, still butt naked.

This was one of the rare times he witnessed Aramis lose control.

The younger man wasn’t hiding his feelings for once and Porthos observed the emotions that crossed his face. Aramis brought a hand to the fabric of the shirt, lifting it to expose the wound and the nasty bruise, flinching while doing so and traced the stitches with his fingers.

The shirt that he had put on was almost completely soaked, same for the shorts. It would have been funny if this wasn’t a serious situation.

Porthos took a stray towel that was hanging on the heater, tying it around his hips. He approached Aramis and patted him on the head. Aramis looked up, having forgotten that there was somebody else in his apartment.

Aramis stood up suddenly, startling Porthos. He went back to the bathroom, the bottle in his hand. He opened the cap, pouring the content of it down the toilet and flushed it.

He couldn’t explain it but it felt like he had something heavy on his shoulders and it had suddenly vanished, finally letting him breathe.

Aramis sighted and ran a hand through his hair. He exited the bathroom again and went to the bedroom.

He found Porthos rumaging through his clothes, searching for something that would fit.

“Top drawer to the left.” he said and took off his clothes, because he was stupid enough to not dry himself before putting them on.

The moment he was naked he realized that he would have to go around the room without any clothing in front of Porthos. Naked. In front of _Porthos_.

“You okay?” Porthos just put a shirt on, fabric stretching over his skin.

“Fine.” Aramis swallowed. “Just dizzy.” the other man bought the lie and turned around. Maybe he imagined it, but he thought he saw Porthos make that adorable face – eyebrows drawn in a hard line, eyes downcast and a pout that made him look like a puppy.

Aramis’s heart sped up. The last time that had happened out of sheer emotions and not out of solely want for physical contact and pleasure was with Marsac.

He blinked extra slow just to prove himself right – all he was able to see were those blue, blue eyes. The same eyes that lost their life and light right in front of him. He sighted through his nose and opened the drawer to his right with a little bit more force then he intented.

With a clenched jaw he put on his underwear and a new pair of shorts, snatching his golden crucifix from the bedside table and putting it over his neck – probably Porthos had taken it off of him when he had fallen asleep.

There was a hand on his back, fingers barely touching his skin, but they were still there. They traced his scars, one by one – from his shoulders to the base of his spine. Aramis closed his eyes.

Only to open them when those dead eyes appeared in front of him again.

Porthos touched the scar that was on the right side of his neck, soft lips followed after.

“Porthos.” he didn’t know if he uttered his frind’s name to make him stop or to give him permission to continue.

“Tell me stop and I will.” Large hands covered Aramis’s abdomen, as far away as possible from the injuries.

Porthos was always careful, always mindful, always so good to him.

His thumb touched the crucifix, following the golden chain upwards until his fingers settled on his colarbones.

“Just tell me to stop.” Porthos breathed in his ear, letting his hands skim down over Aramis’s torso, stopping at his hips. He left soft kisses over Aramis’s neck that soon turned to the side, exposing more of the column.

Aramis rested his head on the shoulder behind him.

“Are you sure?” Porthos insisted, not wanting to do something that even one of them would regret. He inhaled the scent of Aramis’s freshly washed hair that still dripped a bit. The curls felt nice against his face. He covered the cruxifix with one hand, the other remaining on the sharp hip.

Aramis closed his eyes again.

This time Marsac was not there. Only his imagination. He could only picture Porthos behind him with his cheek rested on his still wet hair in nothing but a towel.

Perhaps it was time for him to stop running from his emotions and feelings.

“Yes.” he said, covering the hand that was over his golden crucifix.

The warm body behind him moved away.

Aramis’s heart skipped a bit, thudding painfully in his chest. For a moment he was afraid that he had ruined everything. Then Porthos’s beautiful face appeared before him, a smile on his lips which covered his own.

It was just skin on skin. It was a simple kiss.

Then why did it feel so good?

Porthos buried his hands in Aramis’s hair, pulling him closer, stroking his jaw with his thumbs. He pulled away soon after, not stopping with the gentle moves over his jaw and cheekbones, moving to his temples, under his eyes, tracing his nose. It was soothing and relaxing, making Aramis forget about everything except here and now.

Aramis did the same thing, only with his mouth. He kissed every part of Porthos’s face, lingering on the scars, at the same time tracing his hand down Porthos’s spine.

“I’ve never been good with the romance crap and all.” Porthos murmured, playing with Aramis’s hair. “Thought you should know.”

“Porthos.” Aramis smiled. “It doesn’t matter if you are good with it or not. The important thing is that you tried, that you have put effort in it. Actions talk more than words.” he finished and connected their lips.

It wasn’t like in the movies or like in the books. Their mouths didn’t fit perfectly, their noses bumped, Aramis hissed when his stitches pulled, they stepped on each other’s feet. But it gave them both that wonderful feeling of warmness. And that was all Aramis wanted.

To feel loved. _Not_ to find a substitute to Marsac. But to find love again. To let himself be loved and love in return. It was so simple.

“Stop thinkin’.” Porthos whispered and bit Aramis’s lower lip.

The kisses grew more heated with each passing second, tongues battling for dominance, but neither yielding to the other. Quiet gasps filled the air while they explored, touched and caressed for the first time, trying to find the places that made the other groan in pleasure.

The crucifix that was between their chests bit them with it’s sharp edges every time they collided. The heat grew with every intake of breath, with every shiver and strangled moan.

Aramis licked Porthos’s lower lip, his tongue skimmed over Porths’s teeth which clashed a few seconds after. They were glued to each other now, neither letting go of the other.

Porthos’s phone ringed.

“Shit.” he said and rested his forehead against Aramis’s, both of them panting.

“Answer it.” Aramis said and licked Porthos’s lower lip, smirking when Porthos’s eyelashed fluttered a few times.

Porthos did so, shivering in the process. It was cold without the other man’s body next to his.

“This better be good.” he said as he answered, not even bothering to look at the name on the screen.

 _“Am I interrupting?”_ Athos sounded sober. _“How is Aramis? Has he fainted? Is he burning up? Did he hyperventilate again?”_ Athos was shooting the questions, not letting Porthos take the word.

“Yes. Fine. No. No. No. He’s alright now.” Porthos pulled the tower around his hips up a bit. “There haven’t been any accidents since last night. Don’t worry.”

Athos sighted from the other line.

 _“Did you figure it out yet?_ ” he said at last, a strange tone to his voice.

“What?”

Athos was quiet for a while as if he was having a battle with himself.

“Athos? You there?”

_“Six years ago.”_

This time Porthos fell silent. He blinked, staring at the wall. Aramis moved closer to him, noticing the sudden change. Porthos blinked again.

“You knew.”

There was a cough on the other side of the line.

“How long?”

_“A few months now. I thought that it was best if I stayed quiet because I wasn’t sure if Aramis recognised us. Did he remember?”_

“Yeah. Last night. We both did.”

_“And let me guess, that made him panic, which in turn caused everyhting else.”_

“Basically.” Porthos was kind of pissed at his friend, but he did have a point. Athos did it with good intetions.

Aramis was staring between Porthos and the phone, hearing every part of the conversation since he was so close and the room was so quiet.

 _“Aramis, stop being an idiot, thinking that we will start treating you somehow diffrently or worse than before. The past is past. Everybody has their ups and downs, sometimes the downs being more. You are our friend. Stop thinking otherwise.”_ Athos said, knowing that Aramis picked up every word and hung up the phone afterwards.

“You heard what he said?” Porthos turned towards him, putting the phone on the bedside table. He then stepped closer to Aramis who fortunately didn’t take a step back. That was progress.

Instead Aramis grabbed him by the neck and pulled him down, smashing their lips together. The fingers around Porthos’s throat were gripping gently, careful not to interfere with his breathing or to cause bruising.

This time they moved in synchrone, breaths mingling together.

Porthos guided them towards the bed, carefully laying Aramis down. He stopped when a sharp hiss was heard.

“Aramis?”

“I’m fine.” Aramis rised to silence him with a kiss, tongue licking at his lower lip for entrance. Porthos granted it. Aramis pulled him down and wrapped his arm around Porthos’s neck, the other hand roaming over his chest and stomach which made Porthos almost miss another hiss of pain.

He pulled away.

“I told you I’m fine.” Aramis tried to tug him down again. Porthos moved farther away and turned Aramins on his good side. The other didn’t protest. The wound was a firce red and in the sunlight it seemed even worse, the dark bruise surrounding it.

Porthos bent down and kissed each and every stitch, knowing very well that part of this was his fault. Had he been more careful yesterday Aramis wouldn’t have to go through all the pain again.

“I’m sorry.” he said, moving his lips to the bruise.

“What for?” Aramis stroked his face. The _“mi amor”_ was on the tip of his tongue but Marsac’s laugh echoed in his mind. He shook his head.

“Who was he?” Porthos was still close to his wound, eyes set on him. “The man on the wall, covered in red paint?”

Aramis thought about the whole “reading minds” thing again.

“I loved him once.” the hand on his stomach seemed a bit heavier, as well as Porthos’s brown orbs on him. “He died. We were ambushed. He got shot and stabbed.” Aramis tried to swallow but found that the familiar lump in his throat was getting larger. “I tried to save him.” the bitter taste in his mouth grew. “He lost too much blood.” his vision got blurry. “I failed.”

He looked at the ceiling.

“I couldn’t save him – my best friend and my love.” Aramis gripped the wound, feeling the stitches under his fingers. His hand was getting wet. Suddenly Porthos was alert.

He growled and removed Aramis’s hand which was covered with blood. How many times was that wound going to get re-opened?

“I couldn’t save him.” Aramis said again, this time searching for Pothos’s eyes. There was the old empthy look Porthos remembered and the eyes filled with unshed tears. “He’s dead.” Aramis layed his bloody hand on the blanket and when he moved it away there was a crimson handprint.

Porthos took same blanket and covered the wound with it. Luckly the skin was only irratated and the blood stopped in less than a minute.

“He’s dead.” Aramis laughed and Porthos felt like he himself was stabbed.

How could he be so _fucking stupid_ to ask? He couldn’t keep his curiosity at bay, could he? Look where that got him.

“Aramis.” Aramis was looking at him, but he was elsewhere. For all Porthos knew he could probably be reliving that moment where Marsac had died. Porthos wanted to smack himself for being so stupid. “Can you hear me?”

Porthos slapped his cheeks, probably with more force than he should have.

“He’s dead.”

“It’s okay, Ara--”

“He’s dead, Porthos! And it’s _my_ fault!” was screamed in his face.

Porthos felt the blood rushing through his veins.

“No, it fucking wasn’t! You couldn’t predict that you’ll be ambushed! You couldn’t predict that he would get stabbed or shot! It was a fucking training exercise that went fucking wrong and **_none of that is your fault_!” **

Porthos shook Aramis by the shoulders.

“It’s not your fault. It never was and it never will be.” he sighted, talking quietly. He leaned down until their noses touched.

Aramis’s eyes were starting to change. From almost a black shade of brown they became a bark brown, then a soft hazelnut shade. He nodded, followed by another nod and another, and another. He was shaking, barely breathing.

“None of it was your fault.” Porthos repeated. Aramis continued on nodding, not letting himself speak.

Birds started singing outside.

For the first time Aramis belived. So many times it was uttered to him, so many times he pretended that it was true, at the same time yelling inside the oposite thing. He finally belived.

He belived those words.

_“Just… don’t blame yourself, okay?” Marsac’s lips were red with blood. He tried to smile, but Aramis knew in how much pain he actually was._

_“Stop talking. You’re going to be fine. Help  will come any moment now. Don’t waste your energy.” Aramis stroked his cheeks with one hand, the other applying pressure to the stab wound. He had bandaged it, but the crimson liquid was seeping through. “Shit.”_

_“Aramis…” Marsac swallowed._

_“No.” Marsac opened his mouth again. “No. You’re not gonna die. You hear me?_ You’re not gonna die _.” Aramis shook his head._

_“It’s over. And you know it.” Marsac clenched his teeth and brought a tired hand to the other man’s face._

_“It’s--”_

_“_ Aramis. _”_

_Aramis brought him closer._

_“Don’t blame yourself.” Marsac repeated. “It’s not your fault.” he coughed, barely able to take a proper breath of oxygen now. He covered Aramis’s hand that was on the wound with his own. “It’s not your fault.”_

_The blue eyes were filled with tears, just like Aramis’s._

_“_ Never _… your fault.” he repeated over and over._

_Then he smiled and froze. Blue eyes became foggy, light leaving them._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sentences in Spanish in order:  
> 1)“Damn wounds. Damn stitches. Damn bruises. Damn everything!”  
> 2)“Shit!”  
> 3)“You have got to be kidding me!”  
> 4)“This can't get any worse.”  
> 5)“Obviously, it can.”  
> 6)“Just fine!”  
> 7)“No, don’t!”  
> 8)“Oh, screw it.”  
> 9)“You’re letting the cold in!” 
> 
> Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed it! :)

**Author's Note:**

> So, what do you think? Should I continue or is it a lost cause?
> 
> Ruu Campbell's song "The Call" was the one René (Aramis) played on the guitar and since he saw how much Porthos liked it he gave him the name of the song. And let's pretend that it existed six years ago, okay?
> 
> * It's from Carla Bruni's song "Tu es ma came" : "You're my drug , you're my kind of delight, of programe. I inhale you, I exhale you and I faint away. I wait for you as one awaits the manna..."
> 
> ** Spanish translation of The Paper Melody's song "Keep The Close", I don't know how right it is, because my Spanish isn't great, the same goes for Google's dictionary: "Between the bricks you hide all your secrets, but the walls, they tell me everything, though they have no more space to keep it, though they have no more space to keep it..." 
> 
> Feel free to point out any mistakes, I'll correct them right away!
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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